


Like lightning

by Petra



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M, Vehicular Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-13
Updated: 2010-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Denial, alcohol, lies: Sam knew the spiral of addiction in theory and practice, and he was willing to admit that someone in the car had a bit of a problem about the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like lightning

**Author's Note:**

> No spoilers past the pilot.
> 
> Vehicular sex for Kink Bingo. Beta read &amp; Britpicked by [](http://jamjar.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**jamjar**](http://jamjar.dreamwidth.org/); American spelling.

  
Of all the ways Sam had ever expected to die, smashed to bits in a Ford that'd seen better days and clearer skies wasn't one of them. Someday, he swore to himself, he'd get the keys off the Guv and do the driving himself at a sane--strike that--reasonable, safe speed. Possibly he'd have to stand enough rounds first to kill a lesser man, in body mass if nothing else.

Still, the reckless driving got them to the latest crime scene in one piece, this time, far enough ahead of backup to make it Gene's collar: one scared kid who practically wet himself and handed over enough weed to make for a smallish party. He didn't know the name of the guy he got it from, other than "John Smith," and better yet, a punch to the gut didn't jog his memory.

The plods who came in a few minutes later turned the place inside-out and didn't find any more.

"That snout's going to pay for this," Gene said, and stalked back to the Cortina, frustration in every step. "Half eleven. I could be tucked up in my own bloody bed, not chasing snot-nosed brats. The little bastard can cool his heels for the night. Might put the fear of God into him."

"We could go down the pub," Sam suggested as he got in.

"Job's not over. There's drugs out on my damn streets. What's to celebrate?" Gene took out his flask and swigged scotch, one hand on the wheel as they careened through the dark streets.

Sam shook his head. "You just want to go home, then?"

"What, you have some other bright idea, Gladys?"

"No." He covered his mouth to fight back a yawn. The adrenaline of seat belt-free driving wasn't enough to cut through the fatigue of several nights of terrible dreams.

"I'll drop you home, then." Gene made the offer sound like a threat.

"Thanks." Sam glanced at him in the flickering of the streetlights overhead. The last time they'd gotten good and pissed together, and the time before that, and the last time the trail had gone cold, and the time--

Six times, now, Sam has woken up of a morning with a hangover to beat the band, missing Diet Coke like nothing on this earth if it is this earth, stinking of sweat and sex. If he were younger, he would've blamed the fragmented, oversexed memories on lust and left it at that, but he was a damn DCI whether anybody here believed it or not, and "It was just a dream" was no answer at all.

The answer--buried under too much scotch and too many bitters and just a touch of denial--was sitting next to him, one hand on the wheel and the other tipping up his flask again.

Denial, alcohol, lies: Sam knew the spiral of addiction in theory and practice, and he was willing to admit that someone in the car had a bit of a problem about the other. Possibly, just possibly, it went both ways.

And that was a joke he wasn't saying out loud while Gene was anything like sober, or when he thought Sam was.

He knew better than to say, "If you're going to drink yourself into a stupor before we get anywhere, stop the damn car."

He said, "I'm dying for a piss," instead.

"You're not pissing yourself like a constable who's never seen a shooter before in my fucking car," Gene said, and they screeched to a halt by a dusty alley that didn't see proper light at noon, let alone near midnight.

Sam gave a good listen before he went far enough to relieve himself against the wall, the ordinances against public urination running through his head. Then he waited, and waited longer, until a car door slammed and Gene said, "What the bloody hell's keeping you, Tyler? If you needed to take a shit, you should've waited."

"Just a second," Sam said, and measured the distance to the mouth of the alley by the height of Gene's silhouette against it. He rushed Gene--never a safe thing to do, but safe enough--and kissed him--even less safe.

He had braced himself for a list of homophobic slurs as long as his trousers, or, in the more optimistic parts of his mind, for the good, hard kiss he got instead. "There, now," Gene said, and caught him by his shoulders. "Is this what you're about, then?"

Sam said, "Yes," and it came out breathier than he would've liked. His first sober kiss since Maya, and it was Gene bloody Hunt, of all people. "Please."

"This couldn't wait either?" Gene said, but he sounded as amused as he was condescending.

"Oh, shut up," Sam said, and kissed him again, tucking his hands into the front pockets of Gene's coat.

It was an awkward angle, and it took as much tongue-wrangling as finger-twiddling, but he managed to snag the car keys and get them solidly in his fist like makeshift brass knuckles before Gene broke the kiss off. "Jesus, Tyler, we're not doing this here," he said, and gave Sam a push.

"You're parked right over there," Sam said, waving his empty hand toward the car.

Gene narrowed his eyes, his expression even more shadowed than before. "I spend too much of my time in that bloody car. The last thing I want to think about every time I start her up is your pasty arse wriggling under me in the back seat while you shoot your spunk all over the damn place, or the way you'd bump your head on the steering wheel if you tried sucking me off like the randy nancy punk you so clearly are."

Sam snorted and thought about much less attractive ideas. "Obviously you haven't spent a single second thinking about it, then."

"Nope, and I'm not starting now."

"Right." Sam sighed and wondered exactly when irony was invented, and whether he could hasten its discovery through brute force. "Well, my sensitive breath test tells me you've been drinking a bit much, so I'll drive us both home."

"You'll what?" Gene patted his pockets, shifting from lust to fury in a breath. "The hell you say, you pickpocketing pansy. I'll have those back right bloody now or I'll break your fingers for them."

Sam backed further down the alley into the dark, tripping over a can that went rattling away. "It lowers your reaction time."

"I'm not damned well drunk." Gene caught him by the shoulder held him tight. "And I'm faster than you, so hand them over."

"Just this once," Sam said. Pleaded, when Gene tightened his grip.

"No."

"I really will suck your cock, before we go," Sam offered, hoping it would help.

Gene laughed once but didn't let go. "For what, the chance to drive my car all of three miles?"

"That would be part of the payoff, yeah."

"For fuck's sake." Gene let him go and started for the car. "Fine. You can drive the bloody thing, but I want you on your knees in the passenger's seat first."

Sam tucked the keys into his pocket. "You'll fall asleep when I'm done. You get in the passenger's and I'll do you there."

Gene shook his head and went around to the passenger's side. "Mind your elbows on the horn, then. Last thing I need's for someone to wake up because you're shit in bed."

Sam opened the door and worked out the geography: gear stick, parking brake, and if he angled just right he wouldn't have any of them poking at him. "This is about as far from bed as you can get, Guv."

"Hardly, Sammy-boy." Gene unzipped his flies. "But it's as close as I'm getting with you."

That wasn't even close to true; Gene took up more than half of Sam's godawful bed in his godawful flat, and Sam knew it from experience. But arguing about it now would just waste time, and the longer they sat there, the more likely it was that somebody would come along and wonder why there was a car parked by that particular alley, and what the two blokes inside were up to.

Instead of arguing, Sam spat in his palm and grinned at Gene. "Get your knickers down, then."

"Are you trying to say some damn thing about my manhood, here?" Gene lifted his hips off the seat enough to pull them down, then put one hand on Sam's shoulder. "You just offered to get up close and pretty bloody personal with it, and now you're telling me I'm not good enough for you? Put up or shut up time, Dorothy."

Sam leaned over and glanced up to check that he was below the sightline of somebody wandering by, and also to gauge how far along Gene was on the spectrum between fucking around and fucking annoyed. "If you're going to call me all the names in the 'I hate poofs' book, wait till you've got me naked, all right?"

"What for?" Gene asked, and moved his hand to Sam's neck, giving him a bit of a push. "Not like you don't know what you are."

Sam shook his head and went with it, getting a good whiff of Gene's sweat and whiskey scent mixed in with the constant cigarette haze of the car. "It's not a turn-on right now."

Gene's hand tightened when Sam licked him. "Don't want to be called a nancy-boy when you're acting like one?" He usually delivered his insults at high volume and speed, but his voice was slurred and soft, blunted by the alcohol and by whatever passed for affection between them at times like this. "Thought you were all hot on precision, Tyler--ah, do that again."

Sam hollowed his cheeks for a long moment and Gene groaned. He broke off long enough to say, "I am, but--really, Guv, if you knew how stupid you sound when you're telling me off for giving you what you want, you might not."

"Or I might, if you're going to be a pissy bastard about the whole damn thing." Gene tugged on his hair and Sam let himself go with it, sucking him in again, though the angle was off and the gear stick was pressing hard against his side. "You know you're a damn queer, and you still act high and mighty about everything, flirting with all the birds you can convince to catch your--fuck--your pretty eye."

"Pretty?" Sam said.

Gene grunted and gave him another push. "You've got a mirror in your shit flat, don't you? Stop talking or I'll charge you with wasting police time."

"Lewd behavior would be more to the point," Sam said, and got to the point. The angle was nowhere near ideal, and it made his jaw ache. Trying to move much at all got him a brake in the gut to go with the gear stick in his side, awkward as Gene's heavy hand on his head, fucking with his rhythm.

He was dying for a hand on his cock by the time he got Gene's breathing to shift up a notch. When he reached down to undo his pants, Gene swatted his shoulder. "I don't want you getting my car filthy. Keep your ruddy hands off yourself."

Sam groaned in frustration and sped up as much as he could, sucking in brief breaths through his nose and fighting to think about something that would beat his erection back for a few moments. He felt like every last one of the names Gene was gasping too hard to call him, dirty and perfect. He'd never had this fantasy, exactly, but it was close enough to twenty others, twisted up and used hard in the front of a police car.

The last thing he wanted was to come in his pants and have to deal with that, but it was a close-run race between everything he could give Gene--lips, tongue, his throat's going to be good and hoarse in the morning--and everything it was giving him.

"Jesus--" Gene said at last, long last, and came, salty-bitter and welcome as spring rain.

Sam pulled away and banged his side on the gear stick. He opened the door and spit, deliberately not thinking of all the STDs he could be incubating, then flopped back into the driver's seat at a better angle. "Ready to get home?" he asked when he'd found an equilibrium between needing a wank right the fuck now and having it together enough to wait.

Gene snorted and fumbled his pants up and his trousers closed. "When you're fit to drive."

"I'm fine," Sam lied, and focused on the road and the turns so hard he could've drawn a map of all of them.

"Here," Gene said eventually, and half-rolled out of the car, then leaned down to the window. "Thanks, Tyler."

"I'll be by at eight to pick you up," Sam said.

"You'd better be. Don't want car theft on your record, now, do you?"

Sam laughed. "Not at all, no."

"Right, then." Gene patted the side of the car. "Get on home."

Sam didn't exceed the speed limit much for the first couple of blocks, and then he remembered whose car he's driving. The best way to get pulled over in it was to drive like himself. Going faster meant he got back to his flat faster, and could get his kit off before he lost his damned mind to the memories.

There was already a bruise coming up on his side from where he'd hit himself getting out of the car, and he pressed his fingers into it and got a grip on himself, making it hard, fast, and painful like every time with Gene had been. He told himself what a picture he'd been, eager as a hustler to get used in the cramped funk of the car. And wouldn't he just do it again, as soon as he had the chance.

He came quickly, biting his lip to keep from shouting--as if one more shout would make his neighbors any less fond of him, but he didn't want to yell out his DCI's name if he could stop himself.

The flat was quiet all night, and so were Sam's dreams.


End file.
